Something Old
by possessmemore
Summary: A trip to Japan has unexpected consequences for John and Sherlock. (Tentacle!lock)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: John

John should have suspected from the beginning when he saw the slight scratch on Sherlock's thigh that looked so very infected but looking back probably wasn't. He had just assumed that Sherlock was lying to him about the age of the injury. One more thing they didn't talk about. What did it matter? But then the changes began and somehow John managed to remain oblivious while, at the same time, taking notes of the strange things that were about to happen.

Japan might have been an interesting place to spend a holiday at but, as it was, Sherlock and John didn't see anything else than Shikoku Airport and a close by water reservoir where the detective assumed to find a corpse. Sherlock had insisted that they only had to stay there for a few hours before they could depart and, again, he did turn out to be right. What he hadn't accounted for were the old rotten steps by the lake side that, if john hadn't grabbed his wrist and held him in an iron grip, would have cost his life. Dangling between the fourth and fifth step, a thick darkness beneath him, the detective managed to be rather annoyed than actually worried. As the initial shock wore down, John thought he saw a glimpse of something… shapeless moving in the darkness but before he could think about it Sherlock demanded to be pulled out of the hole and John did what he always did. He followed his order and waited for the next one to come.

The flight back was spent sleeping and trying to ignore the tremendous tantrum the detective was throwing after not even having found "a decayed finger". Throughout their 15 hours of flying including two stops, one in Tokyo and one somewhere called Doua, John kept quiet and friendly with Sherlock, not punching him once which cost him an immense amount of self control. (Just like every other person who had the fortune to spend time with Sherlock during their journey.) Just before the plane initiated the landing maneuver at Heathrow, John noticed the tiny crevice in the Detective's tight Jeans and a cab ride later John decided that he had to check on that to actually be able to get some sleep.

"Sherlock! Let me have a look at your thigh." John yelled from the bathroom fetching his overly used first aid kit.

"I am too tired to indulge in your explorations of not being gay." Sherlock had already taken his usual position on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn't move a muscle or even have the decency to look at John.

"As you wish." The blogger muttered and, taking a torch from underneath the sink, made his way through the parlour.

"Shit. How long have you been walking around with that?" He asked accusingly when he saw the angry red and purple around the wound in the artificial light of the torch. He sat on the table bending low over the Detective's leg.

"I don't know what you mean." Sherlock said, contorting his face in pain when John pressed on the edges of the scratch.

"If you had told me right away this wouldn't have to hurt." The disinfectant made Sherlock hiss in pain before he sat up to take a closer look himself. A surprised expression crossed his face that was quickly replaced by a faint display of interest.

"Can you patch that up yourself or is that too much to ask?" john drawled, placing gauze on one the corner of the table.

"You know very well that I…." Sherlock began but didn't bother to finish when John just got up and went to bed.

* * *

On the 2nd of March, 3 days after their trip to Japan, John found himself in Sherlock's room. The Detective was lying curled up in the middle of his ridiculously large bed, his head pushed back with sweat running down his chest before oozing into the sheets, dressing gown pants sticky and rumpled. The doctor regarded the feverish body, considering his weight and the clarity of bones underneath the flushed skin. Sherlock groaned in his sleep, discomfort showing on his face. A few hours before, John had already taken his temperature but doing it again was a very tempting idea at the sight of a suffering Consulting Detective. At first, he had thought that Sherlock was exaggerating, still frustrated by visiting Shikoku to no avail. But when the genius had stopped complaining and slept the better part of the day, John remembered the incision. And if he was honest with himself, john didn't feel very well either but his own indisposition blurred in the face of the Detective's ailment. Sherlock didn't even wake up when the doctor pushed the dressing gown aside to take a look at the wound. There were no signs of blood poisoning. The skin around it was looking healthy, almost more so then the rest of Sherlock's thigh. So John just dragged him into a sitting position and slowly managed to move him over to his room. Every now and then, the Doctor sat at Sherlock's bedside and took his pulse or instilled some water into him. This time, he had only come out of a sense of _wrongness_. The constant ringing of the phone and voice messages of their client, the apparent widow, was only an annoying background noise. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was that made him uneasy but watching Sherlock somehow managed to calm his worry. Deliberately, he sat down and put his hand on Sherlock's forehead. The skin felt cold and moist under his fingers. Cautiously, he slid his hand into sticky curls. He hadn't planned to do that when he entered the room but seeing Sherlock in this weak state caused a strong wave of affection to bloom inside his chest. He felt oddly protective. Unlike other times when he very well knew that Sherlock could stand up for himself but protected him anyway. The Detective pushed his head into the touch, turning on his back and trying to sooth some kind of itch by moving restlessly on the sheets.

"Sherlock? Do you need anything?" John whispered in a hushed voice.

A groan was all the answer he got. Without a second thought, John pushed himself up the bed and leant against the wall, one hand still cradling the Detective's skull through thick curls.

* * *

It only took two days for Sherlock to become his own insufferable self again. John had invited the client immediately when the Detective pressed the words _the case_ out between his lips. He was trying very hard not to miss the dependant sleepy version of Sherlock while he was waiting anxiously for their client to arrive. He wasn't very keen on telling the young woman that her husband was either dead or had left her for a weird obsession with old gods. Sherlock's restless pacing and contorted maneuvers to scratch his back only served to make him more agitated. It seemed as if the room was filling with an atmosphere of restraint though John wasn't sure why. The moment the door bell rang, John sighed in relief and went to welcome their guest. Her steps were heavy on the stairs while John stood awkwardly in the open door.

"I am sorry we kept you waiting, Mrs. Phillips. Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair, closing the door behind the young woman. She wasn't much taller than John when he'd first meet her but now they seemed to be of equal height. Sherlock watched her intensely while she took the few steps towards the chair. The Consulting Detective nodded at her when their eyes met but kept his face impassive. These things were always John's area of expertise and by the way the woman curled in on herself as soon as she sat down, the Doctor knew that he didn't have to use many words to make her understand.

"Would you like some tea?" He offered in his most sympathetic voice.

"No, I think it would be wasted." She replied bitterly.

"Obviously." Sherlock said taking a seat opposite her. John, too, had noticed her loss of weight since she had come to hire them but there wasn't much else he could offer her. Bracing himself he sat stiffly in the remaining chair.

"So, is he dead?" Mrs. Phillips asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor, her voice controlled and even.

Sherlock looked expectantly at John, who cleared his throat uneasily.

"We..um..We don't know. But it's highly likely. I…We are very sorry." He said, taking her hand.

"He might be alive. He probably left you for another woman or…"

"Sherlock! I am sorry. Again."

"No, it's ok. I don't think anyone of us actually believes that."

"Of course not!" John assured her. Sherlock had the tendency to state all other possibilities just for the sake of giving the client hope, even though he knew they were a) not true and b) often worse than the truth.

A muscle underneath that purple silk shirt flexed restlessly in a sign of agitation.

"Howard is obsessive and often forgets the time when we have appointments but he would never leave me." She said to Sherlock, her black hair hiding most of her face. John never understood why some women straightened their hair but on their client it made him reconsider the aesthetic behind the procedure. When she realized what she'd just said, her full lips began to tremble.

"I mean he was…" John watched helplessly as tears started filling her eyes.

She pulled a crumpled pack of tissues from her leather purse in a vain attempt to wipe them away. Her wedding ring sparkled in the evening light that fell through the closest window.

"I…I am very grateful for your help. How much….?"

"Nothing. We didn't find him, did we?" Sherlock said standing up. He buttoned his jacket and walked over to the door, prompting their client to leave. John smiled to himself thinking how very close together empathy and rudeness occurred in Sherlock's behavior.

Nodding, Mrs. Phillips got up and shook John's hand. "Thank you. If you couldn't find him…" She said by a way of goodbye. Sherlock's face twitched in annoyance at the words and John knew that the case wasn't over at all. As soon as the door fell into its frame the Consulting Detective produced a laptop out of thin air and began typing furiously. John settled for the 3 day old London times and the last box of biscuits, instead.

* * *

_Sherlock was writhing on the sheets. His pale skin glistening in the sparse light falling through the curtains. The faint rustle of skin on silk guided John's eyes to the moving appendixes that were meandering all around the Detectives back. Their grayish blue appeared almost black against the white satin sheets as two of them wound themselves around each of Sherlock's wrists. The naked mans breath hitched when they tightened their hold and pulled his arms up above his head._

With a start John sat up in his bed and tried to blink the images away.

* * *

Although Sherlock was still obsessed with _The Husband Vanishes_, they had taken the next case that Lestrade offered them.

The Yard was as crowded as ever. People hurried from one office to another while browsing through a stack of paper. Others just watching the fuzz from a comfortable distance. Sherlock and John were probably more familiar with the office than some of the newbies that were so very easy to detect. Panic in their eyes, sweat on their brows and always a coffee in hand that they certainly never drank themselves but had to bring some superior.

When Sherlock opened the door to Lestrade's office, the Detective Inspector didn't even spare his arriving guests a glance. The man sitting on the other side of his desk held all of the DI's attention even though his posture clearly said that he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

"Where is your son, Mr. Mullins?" He boomed at the slumped figure.

"I don't….I can't!" The man's voice was small and pleading.

Annoyed, Lestrade got up from his chair and crossed the room towards the dark corner where John and Sherlock had taken an observing position. When he had called and told them that he needed help finding a missing child, John hadn't expected Sherlock to actually be interested but surprisingly the Consulting Detective had merely taken his coat from the hook and said "Coming.".

"So, what do you think?" Lestrade whispered enquiringly.

But Sherlock didn't bother answering, he just stepped forward towering over the suspect and staring at him intensely.

"Your parents are very fond of their grandson, aren't they?" Sherlock asked conversationally. With wide eyes, the suspect nodded at him before averting his gaze.

"Lestrade! The Grandmother has him. Mr. Mullins here is a mere instrument for her. She wanted her grandson to live with her and not the despised daughter in law. He followed her order, being too weak to stand up against his overly dominant mother. If you go to his parents house in… Where is it Mr. Mullins?"

"Leicester." He mumbled in defeat.

"Leicester, obviously. Well, if you go there you will find the son of the poor Mrs. Mullins well fed but homesick."

"Thank you, Sherlock." The DI said, watching Sherlock stride from the room. John shook his hand in a friendly gesture and followed his flat mate out the door. A slight tingle made Lestrade rub his palm while he turned back to the suspect. "Address?"

* * *

While John didn't have the pressure of having to keep Sherlock occupied he still called the Yard a few days later. The Consulting Detective's ongoing obsession with Howard Phillips and his whereabouts worried John more than one of his moods would have done. 221B was constantly filled with Sherlock's restless typing. Every now and then John tried to bring some kind of order into the various stacks of papers that were scattered over every surface of their flat but he had long lost any idea of what Sherlock meant to do with them or what information they actually held for him. When, after three days, Sherlock had obviously not come to any conclusion but didn't snap either, john decided to get them another case. But it was a lost cause. Right after the Mullin's case Lestrade had called in sick and, with Sherlock having the sunny personality he did, every other DI in London refused to work with them.

So John had to just sit there and watch Sherlock working himself into frenzy, developing the nervous habit of flexing the muscles in his back when he was especially agitated and appearing to the rest of the world like the madman he was. John was just glad that the Consulting Detective actually remembered to eat every day. And that was something, wasn't it?

* * *

_Sherlock was writhing on the sheets. His pale skin glistening in the sparse light falling through the curtains. The faint rustle of skin on silk guided John's eyes to the moving appendixes that were meandering all around the Detectives back. Their grayish blue appeared almost black against the white satin sheets as two of them wound themselves around each of Sherlock's wrists. The naked mans breath hitched when they tightened their hold and pulled his arms up above his head._

_Two thicker, stronger ones, wound around his outstretched legs and just held them where they were. John could see the tension in Sherlock's legs and arms when he tested his restrains. Two of the appendixes were just moving restlessly on the sheets on both sides of Sherlock's hips while the remaining one, the one that seemed to come right out Sherlock's spine, slowly wandered up and down his left thigh. Now the remaining two started to move, caressing the naked man's arms and upper back but that wasn't what made John's breath catch. It was that spine tentacle slowly making it's way to Sherlock's middle. The very tip descending into the crease of his arse, sometimes vanishing right between his cheeks and…pushing right there. Sherlock moaned, pushing back and panting. John couldn't do anything else than imagine himself between the man's legs. Would he be writhing and moaning like this when it was John's tongue pushing into him?_

"_Oh god, yes, John!"_

This time John wasn't able to erase the images from his head. Before he had made a conscious decision he had taken himself in hand and was so very, very close to orgasm that he just had to finish. Had to take the edge off.

_Oh god, yes, John!_

It was earth shattering. John lay trembling on his back, seeing hearing and thinking nothing at all. His whole body tingling with the sensation of want…

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in the quiet living room. Staring off into the distance he didn't acknowledge John as he entered the living room. While the doctor fought to keep his embarrassment to a minimum, he noticed that the flat had become a disaster. Sherlock's chaos had overtaken most of the kitchen and actually all of the living room.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, suddenly worried.

"Ill. Don't worry. She's going to be alright just like everybody else."

"Like every…?" John started but suddenly he realized how quiet everything was. There were barely any sounds from outside. He could hear few cars in the distance. The usual chatter from the café below was completely missing and even the ever present pigeons had fallen silent. When John cautiously stepped closer to the window and took a look outside there were no passersby.

"Sherlock…." John whispered now. "What is going on out there?"

"The same thing that is happening in here." He answered cooly.

John turned around facing Sherlock's now intense gaze. "In here?" He asked, irritation making his brows rise.

"What are you dreaming lately?" Sherlock asked, his tone implying that he knew all too well about the explicitness of John's dreams.

"I… It's no use denying it, right?" John said, somehow managing to sound defeated and annoyed at the same time.

A small smile graced Sherlock's face but it was quickly replaced by a pained expression. "No."

"Sherlock, I…I am definitely not able to have such a conversation with an empty stomach. Do I even want to know how you… Oh, don't answer that." John said, pulling his jacket on and making a dismissive gesture with his right hand at the same time." I am going to do some shopping. Need anything?"

Sherlock just watched him as he put his shoes on and got ready to leave.

"We are going to talk when you are back. You better eat on the way."

All John managed was a nod before he all but fled the room.

Tesco was the only shop that wasn't closed down due to a shortage of staff but it was vastly deserted. John entertained the idea that he might have woken up in a post-apocalyptic alternate universe while he made his way through the aisles. His stomach was growling angrily, making him wonder when he'd eaten last. While he had been watching over Sherlock's eating habits like a hawk, he himself had probably not eaten for days. He didn't know. Everything seemed like a haze when he looked back now.

It was probably caused by the depressing silence and feeling of loneliness that John bought an amount of food that would last a minimum of 2 weeks and had to take one of the rare cabs but it at least gave him the possibility to have a hasty breakfast on his way home. He tried to talk to the cabby about the strange situation but the man only made a cross in front his chest and, fighting back tears, refused to talk to him. The rest of the short ride was spent in silence while John ate some meat pies.

Sherlock didn't seem to have moved during John's absence but as soon as John was starting to put away most of the groceries he began to watch him with interest.

"This is not the end of the world, you know?" He stated dryly, observing the state of their fridge from his usual position on the chair. "Humanity, though." He added thoughtfully.

John turned around, his arms full of convenience food and an apple in his mouth. Throwing an angry look at Sherlock, he carefully made his way to the couch where he sat down and began to eat the apple after placing all the food in close proximity around himself. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with eating he probably would have laughed at the offended look Sherlock gave him because of his choice of place. After a rather ridiculous attempt at turning inside his chair to face John, Sherlock got up and sat down beside his flat mate.

"John?"

"Hmmm."

"John. I told you to… Did you eat on the way here?" Sherlock said with now wide eyes.

"Hm-hm." John nodded while chewing on a thick slice of bacon.

"OK. That's enough now!" Sherlock said determinately pushing 2 boxes of biscuits and the can of energy drink to the other end of the table.

"Hey!" John protested loudly.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, shaking John from his apparent fixation and earning a look of surprise.

"Oh, right yes. Talking."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but began to talk none the less. "What do you think is happening out there and in here?"

John took a few seconds to think about a logical answer. "An epidemic, most likely. Probably flu or something absolutely new."

"A very educated guess, considering that you are a doctor. Symptoms?"

"I don't know." John said, creasing his brows.

"Come on, John. You watched it and you felt it. You probably still feel it." Sherlock said impatiently.

"OK. Assuming that it's the same what has been going on with you it is probably just a strong flu going around." Sherlock didn't even try to hide his irritation this time.

"A flu? Really?" He turned his head away in a display of disappointment before he threw his hands dramatically over his head and let himself fall back against the backrest.

"And what about the dreams?" He asked with closed eyes.

"What about them? I don't see any connection between my dreams and this disease."

"Our dreams."Sherlock corrected him.

Before he could reply, the weight of Sherlock's words sank in and John couldn't stop himself from gaping at the consulting detective.

"Very eloquent, John." Sherlock muttered while turning fully towards him.

The doctor just blinked at him, still unable to form any sort of reply.

"I hope you know…" Sherlock whispered conversationally as he leant closer to John's ear. " …They are doing what you want them too. They may be attached to me but you are the one making them do these..things."

"Attached to…" John managed to splutter.

"It takes a lot of energy, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, leaning back and indicating a hand at all the foot on their coffee table.

"I was just…What are you telling me?" John narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if this was some kind of sick joke. He felt anger surge through him and, clenching his hands in agitation, got up to put the food away. He was still hungry but the conversation had destroyed his appetite.

"I see." Sherlock nodded to himself. "You probably need a few hours to yourself." He said in a false attempt at empathy. John didn't fall for it for a second. _Arrogant prick_, he thought to himself.

He didn't look up when he heard the front door fall close. Supported by his hands on the worktop, John tried to calm his whirling thoughts. The unnatural silence outside of their flat made it all the harder to fight the panic inside of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock

The trip to the Yard was a waste of time but Sherlock had expected that. He had actually just wanted to see how many people were calling in sick in spite of deeming their job important. By now, he mused, John probably already remembered the existence of TV and if he did he would be even more devastated. Sherlock had already checked all media in the morning and it was obvious that John wasn't some kind of host for this disease. It wasn't even a disease. Sherlock was fairly sure by now that it was an evolutionary step. In which direction he didn't know. Clearly, John carried a catalyst and whatever ability came with his mutation. The catalyst had already made an appearance when they met Lestrade but Sherlock still hadn't found out if John visited him in his dreams or if it was the other way around. Maybe even both.

Just as he stepped out on the pavement, coming to the conclusion that even the worst criminals might be evolving, Sherlock ran into an exhausted looking Lestrade.

"I am sorry you are bored, Sherlock, but I don't think there'll be anything to do for either you or me. The only ones busy at the moment are doctors and nurses." He drawled but in contrast to his words gestured for Sherlock to follow him back inside.

"Then why didn't you stay in bed? You apparently just left it half an hour ago and didn't even bother to shower before you left."

"Oi, don't take it out on me!" The DI held up a hand defensively. "Let's just have a coffee while you tell me what's going on." Sherlock smirked at him and nodded before he took the lead heading for the elevators.

"Milk, two sugars." Lestrade said when he handed Sherlock his coffee. They had decided to use the break room instead of the DI's office mostly because it was the only room with a coffee machine. The room wasn't very welcoming with it's grey walls and hard chairs but neither Sherlock nor the DI cared much about such petty things.

Sherlock, taking the mug and leaning back in his uncomfortable office chair, watched with interest as Lestrade scratched his back with one hand while he took a seat on the other side of the wooden dinner table.

"So… dreamed something interesting lately?" Sherlock asked with amusement in his voice. The blush that appeared on the DI's cheeks was answer enough.

"Don't tell me that's normal!" Lestrade managed to sound relieved and embarrassed at the same time.

"I don't know actually. Might be just you and me. Well, and John. After all, we were the ones closest to it's source." Sherlock elaborated.

"The ones closest to what? No, wait…." The DI said, shaking his head. "John too, huh? How is he? Still sick? How does he handle the…"

"He doesn't have any." Sherlock stopped him mid-sentence before he narrowed his eyes at him. "And you don't tell him about them! Not about the real ones. Is that understood?"

"Sure, Sherlock. Christ! Do you really think I would go up to him and ask him how it's _squirming_?" Lestrade said defensively. "Just bloody tell me what the heck really happens out there!"

Sherlock sat up, leaning forwards with his elbows on his thighs and closed his eyes in recollection. "Ok. As far as I know a man called Howard Phillips is the reason for this evolutionary step. Or Mutation if you will. His wife hired us a few weeks ago after he went missing. He had an obsession with everything related to the so-called Great Old Ones. Does that ring a bell?" Sherlock asked conversationally, opening his eyes to show the DI that he was meant to answer.

Lestrade shook his head looking at him incredulously.

"Well, the Great Old Ones are mythical creatures that Phillips believed to be real but asleep. Looking back he was obviously wrong, wasn't he? Anyway, they are said to be very powerful crossings between animals, men, aliens and everything else you can imagine. Not everything at once but always a chimera. Additionally, they exist outside of our time and space. Wrong, too. I found out that Phillips had taken a flight to Shikoku and, going by what I gathered from his various manuscripts, I suspected that he would attempt to sacrifice himself in a ritual to Cthulhu. One of the more famous Great Old Ones. We lost his trace at a water reservoir. At this point, I suppose that Phillips found something before he died and fell into the water. Probably a prehistoric virus that affects the genetic composition and changes important genetic information entirely. Whatever it was he found, it scratched me when I almost fell into a burrow. John managed to pull me up before anything else could happen." Sherlock concluded dryly.

"But it happens everywhere. How could a virus possibly spread that fast?" The DI creased his brows in doubt.

"I am not an epidemiologist. I can only assume that Phillips' body fell into the water and spread whatever he caught through it."

…

"So you woke them up?" Lestrade enquired.

"Did you actually listen to me?" The Consulting Detective asked annoyed. "And if anyone did, it was Howard Phillips." He added defensively.

"So why doesn't John have ten… physical symptoms?" The DI had a point. Sherlock had thought about that for the last days and had only come up with a vague theory.

"I suppose when he tended to my wound he somehow shared into my… evolution. I am very sure he has gained mental abilities instead of physical traits. I gained both, apparently. What about you? I didn't get the impression that your mental abilities are any more impressing as they were before."

"Nothing aside of the dreams and THANK YOU!" Lestrade replied slightly offended. "You?" He asked, curious now.

"None of your business." Sherlock said, getting up and taking his coat off of the chairs backrest. When the DI didn't press on, something occurred to Sherlock and he eyed him suspiciously.

"Who?" He asked suddenly intensely focused on the DI's face.

"Who, what?" Lestrade said irritated by the apparent change of topic.

"In. Your. Dreams. Who?" Sherlock demanded. The DI steeled his gaze, looking at him with conviction.

"You don't want to know." He answered deliberately.

"Don't tell me…No. Oh God! Urgh!" Sherlock's face contorted with repulsion. In a hurry he fled the room to get away from this crime against every law of nature. Behind him he heard Lestrade laugh in the empty room.

* * *

The streets where even more deserted when Sherlock made his way home. He was in no hurry to arrive, already fearing John's tumbling thoughts echoing through the thin walls but he knew that they'd have to talk eventually. He'd actually expected John to find out for himself what was happening inside their small flat. The changes were so very obvious to Sherlock and with John's lingering glances on his back and their shared dreams he had assumed that they were just keeping quiet about the whole thing but he had severely underestimated John's ability to ignore what he didn't want to see.

When he had been "sick" and began to evolve, John had taken care of him and, at first Sherlock had mistaken John's constant babble as a sign of worry and a way to break the silence. When he had seen an old man standing in his bedroom, holding an oak wand and staring at him, Sherlock had attributed it to his fever. Just like the choir he was constantly hearing that day.

When he felt something pressing against his back from the inside without feeling any pain but a strong itching sensation beneath his skin he decided to stop ignoring the facts.

It was well after dark when Sherlock arrived at 221b. Deliberately slow, he made his way up the stairs. He could already hear the TV, drowning out whatever thoughts John might have had at the moment. At first Sherlock didn't see him anywhere but he knew that John was somewhere in the room. Even though John sometimes forgot to turn the TV off, as it happened so often lately, Sherlock just knew that John was close by. He hung his coat on the hook and, sitting down on the coffee table, pulled off his shoes and socks. The only source of light in the room was the changing TV picture which blinded Sherlock somewhat.

"John." He said with confidence.

"Here." Came the faint answer from beside the window. John was standing behind the curtain watching the street outside as it appeared peaceful to an uninformed observer. John turned towards Sherlock, untangling himself from the curtain and took the few steps over to the couch where he sat down heavily. Sherlock got up to take a seat on the other side of the table, opposite John.

"You probably think I am an idiot." By the end of the sentence, John realized what he'd just said and to whom. They shared a small smile when Sherlock made a dismissive gesture in response.

"No really. I know I've been more than thick. It's a bit embarrassing, especially for a doctor." He crossed his arms behind his head leaning back and sighing in defeat. "They say that it is everywhere. How can it be everywhere? If it was in Japan, London and the few places the other passengers on the flight went to… But it is not. This is not a disease, is it?" Sherlock shook his head in response, surprised at John's sudden calmness.

"Do you actually know what it is?" The doctor asked raising his brows and looking steadily at his flat mate.

And there, in the quiet togetherness of their shared flat, Sherlock could admit that he wasn't sure about his own theories.

"Honestly? I think I understand most of it."

"YOU THINK?"

Sherlock made a hushing noise at John, looking at their door to remind him that they had an ill landlady in the flat downstairs.

"You think?" John repeated whispering now.

"Yes, I think!" Sherlock's voice was lacking the frustration that he felt deep inside.

"It's not logical. It's… When I was ill and you took care of me, I saw things. I saw a man with us in the room when you…petted my head…" Sherlock stared down at the floor between them before gathering his thoughts and looking back up, noticing the unimpressed expression on John's face. _Just let it go and go on, would you?_

"That is not dead which can eternal lie and with strange æons, even death may die. That's what the man said to me."

"That was what Phillips had written all over his manuscripts before he vanished. The lines that implied Cthulhu's return, right?" John acknowledged, prompting Sherlock to go on.

"I only saw the man once and just for a few minutes but I heard the words for almost 2 days as if sung by a choir. And then I noticed that you kept talking to me even when you left the room." John's face indicated that he was certain about his own behavior and didn't remember being especially talkative.

"And when the dreams began and more and more people got ill, it all fell into place." John looked at him expectantly. "I am sorry? I don't see it. What are you trying to tell me?"

"When I dangled there halfway in the hole something scratched me and, one way or the other, if it was Phillips or us, what happened in Shikoku triggered the epidemic. If it helps, we are not contagious." He said to reassure John and temper his guilt. His flat mate's expression was one of pure worry.

"Did you read the pages on Nodens, the Elder God that likes to visit people in their dreams?" He went on without waiting for a reaction. "It's said that he left the earth when the Great Old Ones arrived."

"Sherlock, are you serious? That doesn't sound like you at all. Did you actually listen to yourself? That is ridiculous!" John stared at him wide-eyed.

"Well, if you eliminate the…"

"Yes, Christ! I know but… I'd prefer the flu, ok?" John said, getting up while pushing his hands through his hair in agitation. "And… Did you just tell me that you are able read my thoughts? Because I am extremely sure that I didn't talk at all while you were sick. Or was that just your way of telling me that you are hearing _voices_?" The doctor began to pace behind Sherlock.

"What I am trying to tell you is simply that you, John Watson, somehow managed to get into MY head. Not the other way around." John stopped at that, turning to look Sherlock in the eyes who strained his neck to watch the doctor's reaction.

"How would I even do that? I can't remember doing anything like this and I certainly didn't want to." _Have you lost it?_

"It appears that it only happens when you address me in your mind or are strongly concentrating on me." Sherlock said, deciding not to mention the insult.

"I really don't know what to think right now." John muttered, shaking his head as he resumed to pace. _If this is true you can probably hear me now. Well, then. FUCK YOU!_

"Oh, that's very helpful and so mature." Sherlock rolled his eyes. The doctor didn't reply, throwing him an angry look. "Interesting. You seem to be more affectionate when you are asleep."

John blushed before he got control over his reaction once again.

"The dreams?" _Oh God…._

"Before you ask… I don't know if they are mine or yours. Both possibilities are just as likely. I think." Sherlock corrected himself. Silence stretched between them while John considered the meaning behind the statement.

There were certain things so desperately unspoken in 221b that it made John stop in his tracks, even in a situation as serious for the world as it was right now, to hear Sherlock acknowledge what they both knew all along.

"Ok. Um…Fine. That's…"

"Fine?" Sherlock asked in a bored tone of voice before he saw John smile at him, making him regret immediately.

"Yes, more than fine." John agreed, suddenly in a very different mood than he'd been mere seconds before. Sherlock watched him in fascination. He could almost feel the tension draining from his body and being replaced with a strong feeling of anticipation. For the first time in days there was something like contentedness spreading through him.

Unsure on how to proceed he fidgeted awkwardly with his hands. "So, um, that's settled then." He stated uncomfortably. John lay his head to the side, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I think that's been enough talking for today." Sherlock's heart began beating wildly in his chest. Images of the possible outcomes of their evening filling his head with that short sentence.

But before his fantasy had a chance to get out of hand John stretched and yawned in a put upon fashion.

"Well, it's been a trying day." With that he left as if they had been watching TV all night. Sherlock sat on the coffee table in midst the remains of at least 4 meals and some of Phillips' notebooks. Dumbstruck, he stared at the door John had left open when he'd gone upstairs. Was he expected to follow his flat mate upstairs? Had he missed something? Was it just John's way of fleeing the situation? How could John get a hang of controlling his thoughts at exactly the wrong moment?

Sighing, Sherlock stood up and turned off the TV. For once, he was utterly clueless on how to proceed.

He stood in the middle of the dark parlour staring ahead without seeing anything. His mind replaying their conversation again and again. It took him 12 minutes to admit to himself that the results weren't conclusive. He was fairly sure that it would have been acceptable to follow John upstairs but the small doubt in the back of his mind, that hadn't anything to do with insecurity, held him back.

Hesitantly, he walked into his bedroom picking up a pack of biscuits on the way.

_Sweet dreams._

_Idiot._

* * *

Sherlock felt John's gaze upon his skin as he watched the tentacles move around him. The silk felt cool and smooth against his torso as he tried to turn around. As it had been before, Sherlock couldn't move. John's imagination was a heavy weight on his back as he felt his tentacles move to their destined position, holding him fast against the bed. His arms and legs outstretched, his breath hitched at the implication. John didn't utter a word and Sherlock didn't need him to. The pressure of the appendixes around his extremities was gentle but decisive when Sherlock felt the second pair caress his upper arms and back. It would have been relaxing had he not known what was still to come. He flexed the muscles in his legs to make John move forward with his explorations. As usual, he could already feel the lowermost tentacle against his thigh. As it idly moved towards his cheeks, Sherlock heard John's breathing catch. The very tip slid into his crease and began to cautiously press against his entrance. The glossy surface of the pointed limb felt wet and hot and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from moaning and pressing against it.

_Would you move like that if it was me between your legs?_

"Oh god, yes, John!"

But it already was John doing that to him. How did he still not see it? He was like a sleepwalker, just repeating the same steps every night and moving a tiny bit further.

Sherlock wanted to tell him but he couldn't do anything else then moan helplessly as the tentacle slowly pushed inside him. He felt the constant pressure, how it stretched the ring of muscles and started to move against his inner walls. John's breath was filing the whole room, almost drowning out Sherlock's gasps and wordless demands for more. He felt his arms being pushed downwards against his shoulders before he finally understood and struggled into a kneeling position.

_Christ, Sherlock, that's …_

Whatever it was he wanted to say, it was drowned out by Sherlock's loud groan of his name as the tentacle inside him began to squirm restlessly.

_Fuck. Is... Is that ok? Do you want me to stop?_

Sherlock shook his head, a movement barely visible the way it hung hidden between his arms. He'd just managed to find a rhythm, pushing back in time with the careful thrusts. He felt the sweat running down his forehead and collecting in his messy curls. His arms were strained with exhaustion already. Everything felt a hundred times more intense than it should have. It reminded him that all of this just happened in a dream even though it seemed as real as anything he'd ever experienced. Beside him he felt the mattress dip. Slowly, he turned his head and forced his eyes open to look at John. He'd never seen him in one of his dreams, only known that he was there, doing this to him. Now he saw that he was wearing only his pajama bottoms. The sparse hair on his chest was sweaty and faintly glowing in the dim light that had no source at all.

The look he saw on his flat mates face was so openly wanting that Sherlock felt a tingling sensation in his guts. A slowly building burn that he felt heavy between his legs. His own concentration always centered on what John was focused on now moved to his cock, reminding him of the regions of his body that hadn't received any attention before. John looked at the two tentacles that had been caressing Sherlock's back and they instantly began to move around his torso, one beginning to slide over his chest and the other exploring the soft skin of his upper thighs and testicles. Sherlock shuddered at the sensation. He knew he was close now with the constant push and pull inside him and the gentle touch between his legs which was gradually becoming unbearable.

"Please, John!"

He felt one hand on his back before he saw John shifting his gaze between his legs again. The tentacle that had been lightly touching him seemed to harden now, its surface becoming blunter but still yielding like something alive. The narrow end of it wound itself around his cock and even though it didn't move it gave him the drag he desperately needed right now. John's hand slowly descended downwards over his buttock and thigh.

Sherlock pushed back against the tentacle inside him and forward into the tunnel the tentacle formed around his heavy arousal. He could only move and feel. Speech had abandoned him at this point. With a huge effort he managed to moan in desperation but it was enough to make John understand. He felt a light press against his inner walls and suddenly he was coming, his whole body convulsing. His arms were barely able to support his weight as he threw his head back, wordlessly.

_This can only be MY dream._

* * *

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and stared at the ceiling.

"Oh." There was always something.


	3. Chapter 3

Evolution

The world lay quiet for two full days. The few people that weren't affected by the profound change which mankind had to undergo felt lost and frightened while they hurried through empty streets. As most humans suffered through their genetic reconstruction, they were the ones left to themselves. They didn't know yet that they would be part of a minority soon.

The only exception to the otherwise forsaken cities were hospitals and churches, although in many cases there was no immediate distinction between the two. Suddenly having found their faith, hundreds of people huddled in churches and ended up tending to each other during the painful time of transformation. Hospitals had closed down due to an overload of capacity on the first day. Many people stayed at home without the luxury of having someone tending to them. In the following days, most of them would be found dead or delirious in their bathrooms, under kitchen tables, on sofas or in their beds.

London awoke reluctantly from it's forced cessation. Phillip Anderson was one of the first to make it back outside after everything had fallen quiet. The shoes felt strange on his scalloping feet but he'd managed to press into them on the fifth attempt. Like everyone else, he tried to appear as unchanged to the outside world as possible. Sally Donovan didn't have that much choice. Her diversification was much more apparent to an outside observer. At first she had loathed them but encouraged by the media reports on certain mutations she decided early on not to hide what was a part of her now. She probably would have been able to hide the small lucent wings on her back beneath a wide jumper but the second pair of arms was definitely too much of a challenge. And frankly, she didn't see a point. Almost everyone had changed and if they hid beneath clothing they could but cowardice had never been one of her traits.

Slowly, hesitantly the Yard came to life again. All the while, 221b was largely forgotten by the outside world. But not entirely.

Mrs. Hudson yelled for them to come down. Her demand a frantic screech echoing up the hallway. Instantly John ran down following her scream, he saw Sherlock a few stairs ahead, his pace indicating that he was equally shocked by her panicked voice. John had been lying on his bed trying to figure out if he had to feel sorry or exhilarated about their last shared dream (_Or fantasy?_)when he heard their landlady. Sherlock on the other hand found it utterly unfathomable how John had managed to maintain any doubt about the detectives view on the matter. He'd been listening intently to catch one of John's thoughts when he heard the noise. In his worry he miraculously managed to be out the door of their parlour before John had had any chance to react.

Sherlock cautiously entered Mrs. Hudson's kitchen when John reached the bottom floor. Raising his brows, he turned back at the doctor motioning for him to follow.

"Christ, this is horrible…" The elderly woman muttered. Curious, John peered over Sherlock's shoulder to see what the fuss was about. Mrs. Hudson sat at her small kitchen table clutching a cup of tea, a dressing gown tied securely around her. Shaking her head she kept staring at a large box covering most of the table's narrow surface.

Sherlock stepped closer, resting one hand on her shoulder his crisp white shirt stretching over his slim back. Swallowing, John watched the play of muscle before he shook himself out it.

"What is it? Are you alright?" He asked, scanning her for obvious physical changes. He hadn't seen her since she'd fallen ill. He'd meant to look after her during the day but he hadn't expected her to be up so early in the morning. Apparently, the _disease_ wasn't as hard on her as it had been on Sherlock or Lestrade.

"What? Yes, yes. I am fine. It's just… this came for you today." She said looking at Sherlock.

"Good. Good. I thought you probably…changed with being ill and all that…" John stated in relief while Sherlock weighed the box in his hands.

"Oh that. No… Well, just these, you see? But from what I saw on TV I am very well off." She said unbothered, pushing her hair back to reveal two holes where her ears had been, the skin around them smooth and unmarked. Sherlock looked at her calmly nodding in contemplation. John stared at her in amazement. He didn't know if he'd taken the loss of his ears with such indifference.

"Such a shame. I've been collecting earrings half my life and now they are of no use anym…" Sherlock tuned her out as he leveled his attention back at the box. It was heavy. 18 to 20 pounds, he estimated. The box was made of cardboard and hadn't been bound in any way.

"Where did you find it?" He asked loudly to stop his landlady's monologue. _Rude!_ He heard John before he caught a glance at his annoyed expression.

"If you ask so nicely, on the bottom step in front of the door. I only wanted to look if the shop was already open but then I saw the box and brought it in."

"Did you see anybody outside?" Sherlock demanded.

"No and I really looked. You know, Sherlock, when I was young it wasn't unusual for me to find little surprises by a young gentleman who…." He put the box back on the table, examining it from all angles. It was ordinary. Probably wired inside but no other way to find out than to just try and make sure. Carefully, he pulled the lit up and peered through the growing opening. When he couldn't make out an obvious mechanism he opened it completely. For a short moment he felt astonishingly sick considering what he'd seen and where he'd investigated for decades. The blue-ish flesh was unmistakable. He could hear John's sharp intake of breath beside him and a quiet _I thought_… before the doctor got a grip on his facilities.

The cut was clean and it's area unbroken. Dissected when it wasn't moving and probably not even attached anymore.

With big strides Sherlock left the room and, taking his phone out of one pocket pressed speed dial before he left through the front door. John watched him distractedly. As if by force, his gaze was pulled back to the piece of tentacle that was lying in front of him and defacing his reality. He knew people mutated into all sorts of things but he had somehow considered tentacles to be part of his dream, a proof even for this fantasy to be less than realistic. But now as his false perception stared back at him he wondered how much of his dream had actually been reality.

"It's disgusting. Please, John, do me a favor and get rid of it, would you?" Mrs. Hudson asked with her pleading "I-Am-Only-An-Old-Lady"- face that often made him do things she would have had no problem doing herself. Nodding, he closed the box and picked it up.

"S'pose Sherlock wants to examine it, anyway." He let himself be pushed out through the door as he decided to put the limb into the bathtub.

When John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock entered the flat. Having left without a coat, the detective must have been freezing outside but his face was flushed and there was a slight sheen of perspiration on his skin.

"Where did you go?" John asked puzzled.

"Had to call Lestrade." Sherlock stated briefly. If his theory was correct and having made certain that the DI was alright, there was only one person this limb could belong to.

"What for?"

"Later, John." Sherlock brushed him off rummaging through the chaos above the fireplace before fishing out a note and dialing the number on it.

"Hello. I received your message. Why don't you just ring and come upstairs." He said coolly and hung up right after.

"Sherlock, what the hell is happening?" The doctor hovered awkwardly in the doorway between kitchen and living room.

"Where is your gun?" Sherlock countered hastily, opening the door to the stairway. Surely enough, the door bell rang out.

"Don't bother, Mrs. Hudson, it's for us!" He yelled before he fixed his gaze at John.

"Where?" He asked forcefully.

_Upstairs._

"Go get it. Run! Come down when I call you." Sherlock said and descended the stairs.

John tried to be fast but silent. Fortunately, he didn't wear socks or shoes. It wasn't the first time that little habit of his came in handy. Frantically, he produced his gun kit from under his bed side table and made sure the firearm was serviceable. Stuffing the gun into the back of his trousers and adjusting his jumper so it wouldn't show, he took a deep breath and waited for Sherlock's call.

"Dr. Watson, we've got a client." The way Sherlock addressed him made clear that he was expected to play along with what was happening down there. As if he wasn't expecting anything more than a pleasant conversation he walked slowly down the stairs.

As he entered the room, Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, Mrs. Phillips opposite him. Her hair was a mess. Her beige jacket creased and worn. John had a hard time imagining her as the strong young woman he'd first seen in her. Now her appearance reminded him of some of the Bakerstreet irregulars. The ones that did almost everything for Sherlock only to feel useful again.

"Oh, I am surprised to see you again. " He said, offering her his hand. She looked at it disdainfully. John tried to appear as if he'd not noticed. "Tea?" He said, moving into the kitchen immediately to have an excuse for staying out of her line of sight. Sherlock sat in feigned nonchalance and waited for her to do whatever she'd planned to. John made a show of preparing the tea, being deliberately loud and humming to himself. He knew he was an awful liar but he just couldn't help it.

"I don't know what happened to Howard but this…" She moved her hand in an all encompassing gesture indicating the world outside their window. "…this isn't his fault." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, dissecting every expression that passed her face. John had the sinking feeling that he knew where this was going. Sherlock leant forward and, resting his arms on his thighs, raised his brows at her.

"So, why the box? Care to explain?"

"You were very fast in figuring out that it was me who sent it. Too fast for my taste, anyway. So you should know why." She answered, barely holding back her anger.

"Well…" _Sherlock!_ "I'd say, you are having a mental breakdown probably caused by the strong physical change you had to endure shortly after losing your husband. Judging by the pearls around your neck, your reddened eyes and the golden earrings that are clearly above your income, I suppose the death of your mother was the crucial factor in your decision that somebody, in the end me, had to be responsible for that. But I can assure you that it was, in fact, John. At least in your case."

"I didn't just decide, Mr. Holmes. You did it! You brought this upon us. You went to Japan and awoke them!" She accused him, her voice breaking on the sheer intensity of her hatred.

"Awoke who?" Sherlock asked calmly. "Did you actually see any gods on your way here?"

"You know perfectly fine what happened. Howard made a mistake. He thought he'd find something enlightening. Something that would explain why we are all here. Something that would give our lives a sense. But that's not what it was. Don't try acting stupid with me, Mr. Holmes!"

"You know what they say. God lives in every single one of us and, surprisingly, whoever said that was right. We are the Old Gods. At least, we turned into them." Sherlock drawled, appearing as if he'd just explained the color of the sky to a four year old.

"Gods? GOD'S?" Mrs. Phillips yelled angrily. "Monsters! That's what we became! And what about the people that died? What about my mother?" Tears were gathering in her eyes and her voice broke to an ugly squeal. The hair in John's neck stood on end, a strong sense of danger crawling up his spine he felt the urge to intervene.

"But…Do we look like monsters to you? You certainly don't look like one to me." He added in an attempt at kindness. He knew he had made a mistake when he saw a slight wince on Sherlock's face.

With a start, the agitated woman got up from the chair and turned towards him. "You are monsters, just like me! Is it true what he said? Did you do that to me?"

"Do what?" John asked raising his chin and looking into her eyes, unblinking. He saw Sherlock standing up as well behind her, ready to step in if necessary. It was such an unusual behavior that it caught John slightly off guard. Though, not as much as Mrs. Phillips beginning to pull her shirt over her head. This time he took a step backwards, unsure what to think and how to act. But he rapidly understood when he caught Sherlock glancing at her back with interest. _Shit. Are you serious?_He demanded, angrily staring at his flat mate which immediately looked up at him. He knew what he would see on the back of the bra-clad upper body.

"Do I not look like a monster to you?" Their former client asked with agitation, turning around promptly. "Does this look HUMAN TO YOU?" John stood frozen in his place. He couldn't answer her. All he managed to do was stare at her back where she had mutilated the new aspects of herself in a horrific way. The doctor could see the small mouth-like slits that once held her tentacles hidden from the world, but now they were burned and seemed like wilted flowers hanging limply from her back. Three of her tentacles were still discernable even after she'd cut most of them off, apparently using a blunt knife or scissors. John was shocked by the evident desperation behind the act.

_God, Sherlock. Did we do this? Did I do this?_

"It's not your fault, John. You didn't know. I didn't know." Sherlock said, ignoring the angry woman between them entirely.

"So it was you?" She said, her eyes wide and almost manic as she turned facing John. "You brought this with you. You started this!" She hissed stepping closer. "End it!"

"I..what?" John said irritated and shaking his head.

"I SAID, END IT!" She screamed now. Sherlock moved to one side behind her, nearing the front door cautiously as if to cut her off before she could step through the open door but she obviously didn't plan on leaving soon. John watched him raising his hand and holding it up in the direction of the hallway and he understood. Mrs. Hudson must have heard the screaming young woman and had wanted to see what the fuss was about. He imagined he could actually feel her retreat after being stopped with just one hint by the Consulting Detective. Sherlock's finger pointed downwards in a repeated motion. Whatever it was he was trying to tell their landlady, John hoped imploringly that she understood.

When Mrs. Phillips turned around again, Sherlock looked at her with a blank expression, not indicating in the least that something had happened while she was occupied.

She wasn't in haste as she went back to her chair and pulled a large bread knife out of her purse. For a short moment John was grateful that it wasn't a gun but when he saw the purple and red stains on the blade he understood that she was in fact very dangerous.

The knife hung loosely from her right hand. If it wasn't for the way the woman was vibrating with energy, ready to pounce at John any second, an unheeding observer would have thought that she'd immediately forgotten about it until she raised it to be level with the doctor's throat.

"Show me you back." She demanded taking a step sideways, closer to him. She had positioned herself between the two flat mates. Sherlock stood to her right, his hands behind his back and his head slightly angled towards her. John had the impression that it was a motion that enabled him somehow to anticipate what she would do next. At the moment Mrs. Phillips' focus was completely on John but her position made quite clear that this could change within a blink of an eye.

_The gun. The gun is in the back of my trousers._ John thought, desperately conveying the message to Sherlock.

"Don't you want to see my back as well?" Sherlock asked confidently. She threw her head around and regarded him for a few seconds.

"I want to see both your backs. Show them to me. Now."

_Sherlock…_

The Consulting Detective nodded at him to start. _Sherlock, I don't think that's…_

"Just do it, John." He said reassuringly.

Uncertain, John peeled his jumper and undershirt over his head. He let them fall to the floor, his sole attention on Sherlock, who was unbuttoning his shirt efficiently before he slowly placed it over the back of his chair.

"Turn around." The wild woman commanded. Taking a deep breath, John turned his back on her and closed his eyes, waiting to feel the blunt tip of her knife or at least an angry demand to hand her the gun. But everything remained silent behind him. Cautiously, he faced her again. There was a look of disorientation on her face before she addressed Sherlock on her left.

"You! Why didn't you turn around? Do it!"

Without haste, the Consulting Detective made a full circle with his arms outstretched to both sides. John was confused to say the least. There was nothing. Just smooth white skin.

Before he managed to snap back to attention he heard the clink of the blade as it hit the floor.

"How…? I don't… No, this can't be true." She stammered walking backwards and pulling her own hair. As the hollows of her knees hit the coffee table she sat down hard on it.

"Now." Sherlock stated loudly while putting his shirt back on. The next thing John knew was that Lestrade had the woman in handcuffs. While he was marveling at the fact that it had been him on the stairs all along, he remembered that he should probably pull his jumper back on to hide the apparently invisible gun that was pressing distinctly into his back from the DI's eyes.

He watched as Mrs. Phillips was lead out of the door, muttering that she might have mental issues, that Sherlock might have been right with her having a breakdown and that it was for the better if they kept her locked away from others. An awkwardly walking Anderson smiled uncertainly back at John before he closed the door behind himself and they were suddenly alone again.

Unsure what to do, John remained standing right where he was and looked questioningly at Sherlock. If he'd expected to get his explanation that easy he was obviously wrong for the Detective just sat down in his chair, calmly staring back at him.

But he wasn't in the mood for any games of further delays. John had an idea on what was going on and he would get it confirmed or not but he'd get the truth out of Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

4

John withdrew the gun and looked at it, contemplating what had just happened. He could clearly see it and he was sure seconds ago he wouldn't have seen anything at all but would have been able to feel its weight in his hand at the same time. He put it on the mantel piece, letting his hand rest on it while collecting his thoughts. It wasn't even midday and John was already feed up with that day as a whole. His stomach was growling, his head spinning and the urge to kick Sherlock was almost surreal in its intensity. He wasn't sure how much of it was conveyed to his flat mate but it was obviously enough to have him shifting uncomfortably in his seat now.

"John? Could you..um...probably think a bit louder?" Sherlock asked with his hands folded in his lap, his head tilted to the side and a look of insecurity on his face.

"What the hell did just happen?" John asked turning his back at the Consulting Detective. "What, in the world, just HAPPENED?" He yelled, not daring to face Sherlock out of fear that he'd not be able to keep his anger and disappointed bottled up.

Behind him he heard the chair creak as Sherlock got up. John held one hand up to stop him from stepping closer. His head hung low as he stared at his feet. "No. You better don't." He said forcefully.

_You will tell me everything. Do you understand?_

"Sure. Could we…" _What?_

"Eat. Actually. I wanted to propose we eat first." Sherlock stated, wearing a façade of detachment.

John wanted to explode, he wanted to scream and smash something. He took a very, very deep breath during which he suddenly realized that Sherlock was being the responsible one for once. He smelled a trap but let his breath out in a rush in resignation.

"You will not leave. You will eat breakfast here with me and afterwards you will answer every question I have. Is that understood?" He firmly demanded.

"Absolutely."

He didn't move a muscle until he heard Sherlock rummaging in the kitchen. John listened to him searching through the cabinets. He doubted that his flat mate actually knew where the plates and cups were located but he would not help. No, he would not.

"Don't worry you don't have to. I can manage."

* * *

John paced up and down the living room. He would have to ask the right questions to get the answers he needed. And he needed a lot of those.

"Breakfast is ready, John." Sherlock said cheerfully. _Oh, shut it!_

John sat down at the kitchen table examining his so called breakfast. Biscuits, toast and olives where on one side of the table all placed on the same plate beside a glass of jam. Another plate held all sorts of crackers and chips while the one closest to him was stuffed with greenish looking bacon.

"O…k…" He muttered, unerringly choosing the jam and a toast. He shoved the bacon a bit further away in order to not smell it while eating his toast. Sherlock devoured all of the biscuits with his tea. John hadn't yet dared to take a sip of his cuppa. The tea looked a bit too milky and there was no steam rising from it. After he'd eaten his first toast his stomach kept growling at him angrily. Silently, both of them ate almost everything Sherlock had put out for breakfast. With interest John watched Sherlock's attempt to eat the bacon. After two cautious sniffs and a hesitant lick the Consulting Detectives throat had constricted and his eyes had watered as he fought the nausea.

"Done?" John asked when Sherlock had managed to fight the urge to vomit.

He nodded miserably and wiped the tears from his eyes before he got up and threw the bacon into the bin, not bothering with separating it from the plate first. "I think the parlour is more suitable for this, though."

Agreeing, John got up and went to stand in the middle of the room. Expectantly, he motioned for Sherlock to go over to the desk. "Take of your shirt and bend over."

Silently, Sherlock did what he was told. He threw his shirt to the side and leant forward, supporting his wait on the desk. John's anger had dissipated gradually with every bite of toast but now it welled up again.

"How did you do it?" He asked while stepping closer and surveying the seven small slits on Sherlock's back. He was sure they had been there all the time but somehow he hadn't been able to see them.

"I imagined what I wanted her to see." Sherlock stated detached.

"But I saw it, too. Or didn't. Whatever." John remarked, lightly probing around the edges of the upper right orifice. Sherlock could feel the doctor's breath on his skin and goose bumps blooming all over his back.

"I had to make sure it would work. I didn't mean to include you but I had to concentrate on the task at hand." The anger raised its ugly head again.

"Do you often do that to me?" John asked with a voice of steel, stopping in his examination.

"Never. It was an accident." Sherlock said in a soft tone. The doctor resumed his explorations on Sherlock's back with gentle pressure against the mouth-like openings.

"Did I do that to you? You said I did it to Mrs. Phillips." He inquired, letting his other hand rest on Sherlock's hip. He tried to pry beneath the closed cuts but didn't want to just press his finger inside of them.

"No. It was the wound I got in Japan but if I am right, and I am sure I am, you operate as a catalyst to the mutation on people that haven't evolved yet." John stepped back from him letting his hands fall to his sides.

"How do you know? If it was just her you can't be sure."

"Lestrade. You shook his hand. Shortly after, he fell ill. I met him at the Yard and noticed that he kept scratching his back. Long story short, he's got tentacles and disturbing dreams about my brother."

"Shit!" _Oh, God. What did I do? I…fuck. No!_

"I think you actually did him a favor. From what I've gathered the mutations range from minor changes, like in Mrs. Hudson's case, to people actually mutating into a heap of moving flesh. I even heard of cases of levitation. But I doubt it."

_What?_

"I just wanted to say it could have been worse. His change isn't obvious and could even be helpful for his work."

"God, Sherlock."

"Just send him a gift hamper if you don't receive one of him first." Sherlock drawled. He was still bending over so John couldn't see his face. He wasn't sure if he was being serious but considering his usual attitude, he probably was.

John wasn't able to focus. He felt guilty although he assumed Sherlock had a point. He should definitely call Lestrade and ask if there was anything he could do for him.

"John!" Sherlock interrupted his line of thoughts. "You can do that later. I am starting to freeze here so let's get it over with." It was apparent that he tried to sound annoyed but the doctor didn't miss the nervousness in his voice.

"Right." He said, beginning to resume his explorations when he saw the hint of something dark blue in the middle of one of the openings. The pointed end wound itself out of Sherlock's back. John let his thumb brush over it. It felt smooth, so smooth that it was glistening. At first he thought it was wet but there was no trace of liquid on his thumb.

"Does it hurt?" He heard himself ask while letting his fingers idly wander over the foreign surface. Sherlock sighed shakily.

"Not really, no." The understatement was evident by the way he held very still under John's touch while the tip of the tentacle wound itself around the doctor's finger.

"Our dreams…" John tried to be attentive and keep their conversation going but his mind kept on wandering. "I thought I've been fantasizing because of these." He said, letting the limp slip through his fingers. The thumb of his right hand began to draw small circles on the silky skin over Sherlock's hip bone. "But I didn't?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head weakly and pressed back into the touch. John noticed the other openings on his back beginning to widen slightly and that the one tentacle he had been fiddling with had grown in length and thickness. It made a faint sensation of arousal crawl up his spine. "So, are they mine or yours?" He whispered taking the single step it took to erase the little space left between them.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock asked breathily.

"Maybe it doesn't but I want to know." He had let go of the tentacle now but his hands were still occupied caressing Sherlock's sides. His hands met at the lowest opening right on Sherlock's spine where he pressed lightly around the edges.

"Con…considering that you can enter _my_ head and I can't enter yours, and that you didn't know that I had these additional limbs in the first place, they should be mine." He admitted, bending lower still, ending up almost flush with the table top.

"But I controlled them." John established while winding his left arm around Sherlock's torso and pulling him up. Slowly, he turned him around to look up into his eyes.

Sherlock observed the doctor's dilated pupils and flushed face before he rested his hands on his hips. He felt John's touch on his ribcage, the elated pulse being transferred onto his skin.

"You did." He said pulling him close until he felt the fabric of John's jumper scraping at his stomach. He brought his lips to John's ear and deliberately breathed on his neck doing so.

"I wanted it. I wanted it all." He spoke under his breath.

John felt the hairs on his body stand on end. His knees somehow felt wobbly and abruptly it was way too hot in the room.

Sherlock took a step backwards, regarding John from head to toe. A small smile appeared on his face as he moved to the side and walked towards his room.

"Coming?"

John's heart was racing, his own pulse loud in his ears. His feet felt glued to the ground where he stood and there was a prickling sensation in his fingertips. It took him a whole minute to respond.

"Yes."

* * *

Even though the topic was unspoken between them, even though Sherlock and John almost never dared to think about it, their mutual understanding of what it was they felt for each other was as persistent and unintended as it was cherished. There was no discussion or even mention and there had never been. There simply was no need. They were grown men with experiences and preferences that had nothing to do with what they meant to each other. It wasn't about sexuality or gender. Sooner or later they would find each other. Although both of them sometimes lost their faith in this fact, it was a major truth in both their lives.

Now that John was standing in the open door of Sherlock's bedroom there was no realization that the moment had come, he just pushed the door wide open and stepped into the next chapter of their relationship.

Sherlock stood beside his bed. Shirtless but wearing trousers and pants. Both had dressed for this day, for an awkward conversation that would hopefully end up in physical contact of sorts. Sherlock had noticed the second he saw John behind him on the stairs but his flat mate only considered in this very moment that Sherlock was actually wearing more than a dressing gown and pajama bottoms.

The Consulting Detective immediately invaded John's personal space, leaving no distance between them. John had to strain his neck in order to catch a glimpse of his impression but before he had a chance to relish the slight blush on Sherlock's face he felt full lips against his own. If he'd ever allowed himself to imagine such a thing as kissing Sherlock Holmes he would have never expected it to be hesitant and soft, innocent even. It felt like a relief, a desperately needed gulp of air after holding ones breath under water. They didn't touch each other. There was no grabbing or fumbling. No moaning or sighing. Just the gentle press of lips against each other.

Sherlock was the one ending the kiss by raising his head. For a short moment John kept his eyes closed, still caught up in the shift of reality around him. Sherlock watched him with interest as he opened his eyes and his pupils had to adjust to the daylight pervading the room. There was a moment of silence where they looked at each other and didn't dare move.

Wordless, Sherlock took John's hand in his and pulled him down as he let himself fall backwards onto the bed. John caught his own weight with one arm, bumping into the Consulting Detective's calf with his knee. None of them noticed, though. Sherlock had instantly begun to pull John's jumper upwards what made it even more difficult to find a position that allowed them both to move freely. Trying to help Sherlock to accomplish his task, John pulled back but when he moved down again, Sherlock pushed him to the side by pressing against both of his shoulders. Irritated, John lay very still beside him and waited for the things to come.

"Lie down in the middle." He was ordered impatiently.

He positioned himself, staring at Sherlock who had gotten up again and shimmied out of his trousers and underwear. It distracted John to the point where he almost fell off the other side of the bed during his attempt to get rid of his own jeans and pants and had to stop himself from moving. Even though, Sherlock wasn't fully erect he was able to imagine what that would look like. The freckles and scars on the pale skin where anything but perfect, the bones a testament to bad eating habits.

John saw all these things but they were of no interest to him. The only thing he paid attention to was the astonished look on Sherlock's face and the slow lick of lips it accompanied.

He watched him getting on the bed and coming to kneel between his legs. Distractedly, John let his clothes fall beside the bed. Sherlock let his hands slide up and down his thighs, getting closer to John's cock with every upwards move. Slowly, John felt himself harden at the prospect of Sherlock's action. When the man between his legs leant forward, never breaking their eye contact and biting his lips out of insecurity, John felt his cock twitch at the sight.

Now he was able to see the tips of the tentacles lurking out of Sherlock's back. Inertly, they emerged out of it, squirming right and left. John watched them in fascination before his whole attention was drawn to Sherlock's mouth barely touching his cock. His eyes closed of their own accord and he couldn't suppress a hiss at the sudden wet heat around his growing arousal. He felt himself harden further with Sherlock's cautious suction.

_Oh, Sherlock, that's… Oh._

He took him deep, trying to swirl his tongue around John's cock and rubbing small circles on his thighs with his thumbs. The tentacles moved lazily on his back. They weren't even half way extended when one moved past Sherlock's shoulder blades. John watched nervously as the tip of it squirmed over his lover's shoulder and brushed the small part of his shaft that was still outside of Sherlock's mouth. It wound itself gently around his cock but didn't do anything else then holding it steady. Sherlock's head moved up and down with confidence when the Consulting Detective looked up to observe how John followed every move of his additional limbs. Slowly, the tentacle around his hard arousal unwound and rewound again.

_What are you…_

But before John finished the thought he felt how the motion turned more gliding and gentle. The tentacle glistened from wetness now, having been drenched in Sherlock's saliva. It retreated the way it came but never touched the Consulting Detective's skin, instead raising itself higher before taking on a hook-like form and descending slowly between Sherlock's cheeks.

_Christ! Are you…? Oh God!_

John let his head fall back and threw one arm over his eyes, the image of Sherlock preparing himself on one of his tentacles while sucking his cock probably burned into his retinas until the last syllable of time. His other hand found thick dark curls to hang on to. With every passing second, it got harder and harder for John to keep his hips still. He wanted to bury himself inside Sherlock's mouth and come down his throat right this instant but he also wanted to hold on to this. This right there. With Sherlock as open and loving as John had ever seen him.

He felt the deep rumble around his cock before he heard it and his eyes flew open. He raised his head letting his arm fall limply beside his head. Sherlock's voice, being an octave deeper than usual, emanated from the gorgeous mouth and sent vibrations through John's whole body as the Consulting Detective pushed back against the tentacle entering him. The tiny thrusting motions of it's pinnacle were mesmerizing to John as they caused waves of movement in Sherlock's hips and back.

_Fuck. Don't stop!_

Even now, his lover managed a complacent smile at the plea. John couldn't stop himself anymore from pressing his hips up between Sherlock's lips. He pushed in and pulled back, his motions turning faster and faster.

"Oh, Sherlock.." _that's good. That's…_

Sherlock let is cock slip out, leaning back against the tentacle with a groan. John fought the urge to take himself in hand, taking deep breaths with closed eyes. His hand lay unmoving on his hip as he tried to calm his libido down to a point where he could touch and be touched without coming on the spot. The sight that greeted him upon opening his eyes didn't help at all. Sherlock knelt between his legs languorously rocking between the tentacle inside him and the fist he'd formed around his leaking arousal. His head was thrown back and, with his eyes closed and his mouth forming a sigh, John had the impression that he had completely forgotten about him. The doctor kept staring at the strangely erotic sight Sherlock offered in his self-indulgence. Sweat began to form on the man's chest and forehead. His curls were sticking to the skin of his temples and neck, and there was a deep blush spreading from his cheekbones all down to his flat stomach.

_Sherlock?_

The Consulting Detective's eyes opened sluggishly as he raised his head to regard John questioningly.

_May I join you?_

The only answer he got was a nod before Sherlock's head fell back again and his eyes closed. John struggled into a sitting position, leaning back on one arm while letting one hand wander of the other man's chest and stomach. With care he pulled Sherlock's hand away from his cock and closed his own around it. This was familiar territory to him. It wasn't the first time he'd touched another man with the intention to give him pleasure but on these few occasions there had never been any romantic intentions on his side. This time he wanted to see and feel every reaction of his counterpart so he could repeat what he'd done if the chance arose again. After the first few strokes he established a rhythm and, having gained a bit more confidence in his actions, added some moves he himself enjoyed.

"John." Sherlock sighed, sounding unhurried and content right where he was. The doctor neglected his own desire finding the small ripples wrecking Sherlock's body much more satisfying. He leant forwards, balancing himself to be able to use his other arm to pull Sherlock against himself. He felt his own fist move against his belly as he continued to stroke the Consulting Detective's cock. John brushed his lip over Sherlock's collar bone before he lightly nibbled at the sight of his neck. Goose bumps spread over the pale skin and the movement against his stomach grew more urgent.

_Not yet. This is not how I want this to go._

In the meantime, Sherlock's tentacles had grown to their full size. Two of them were resting behind him on the mattress while four others stretched to both sides of John's vision. They were impressive in color and length but their dexterity was still unknown to John. The one tentacle that was still thrusting up into his lover made an idea appear in the doctor's head.

Sherlock's eyes shot open. It felt as if his tentacles were being pulled away from his back one by one. John's look of concentration told him all he had to know. He immediately wanted to close his eyes again. He couldn't stand the intensity of their closeness. Not only that he had never felt anything like this before but he also had never had any sexual contact in the context of a shared emotion. Surely, sex had been an object of his studies for a short time in his youth but he quickly condemned it when he noticed that it just wasn't possible for him to achieve an orgasm. It shocked him now how acute his own arousal felt in John's presence. With John touching him where he hadn't touched himself in years.

His spine-tentacle moved behind him relentlessly. For a short moment he wasn't sure if he should just let things happen to him, passive and just feeling, or if he wanted to explore every inch of John's body. The doctor made the decision for them.

_Up._

John ordered while falling back on the bed. Uncertain, Sherlock raised his thighs and watched as John pulled his legs up only to push them into the space beneath his pelvis. Sherlock held on to his shoulders, his cock brushing John's hip bone and reminding him of his own desire.

_And down._

As the Consulting Detective let himself sink down again, he felt John's hard arousal against his pelvis. He groaned and made to take himself in hand again but John was quick to stop him. He knotted the fingers of both his hands through Sherlock's thrusting lightly up between Sherlock's cheeks. Two tentacles wound themselves around his calves and John's thighs, binding them together. The tentacles coming out of the middle of his back slowly squirmed over his shoulders and looped through his armpits before they curled around his back and chest crossing each other. His position was strained now. His own limbs held him in place, his mobility limited to small movements of his arms and hips.

_OK?_

As soon as he had nodded, he felt the singular tentacle retreat from his body and squirm lower. The doctor's cock pressed against his entrance seconds later, probably supported by the appendix. John watched him wordlessly, his eyes dark with arousal. Sherlock was sure that he offered a similar sight. He was panting open-mouthed, sweat was running down his temples and he already missed the feeling of something moving inside his body. A small whimper escaped him when he felt the insistent press of John's glans against his already loosened ring of muscles.

John bit his lower lip to keep himself from pushing in too fast. He felt himself being engulfed in tightness, every clench of Sherlock's inner walls making it harder for him to breath. As soon as he had though it the tentacles around Sherlock's body fastened and he entered his lover completely. Fighting his instinct to thrust in and out, he kept his gaze fixed at Sherlock, who wore a look of astonishment as he stared right back into the doctor's eyes.

"Do it." The Consulting Detective whispered.

Sherlock felt the tentacles press down on his shoulders as John began to thrust. He hadn't considered John's width, not in comparison to the pointed tip he'd enveloped shortly before. He felt the ridge of John's cock rubbing against his inner walls with every movement of his hips. In his own considerate way, John kissed Sherlock's knuckles while he build a cautious rhythm. He sighed when he felt the tightness loosen bit by bit around him, a clear sign for him that his partner started to relax into his ministrations. He relished the slow drag on his sensitive skin and the small waves Sherlock's hips began to make in answer to his own motions.

Experimentally, John pound into the heat of Sherlock's body. Once. Twice.

_Fuck, I never even expected something to feel like that. It's so…_

"God." John moaned as he slowed down again. He felt abandoned in time. Somewhere outside of this room the world was turning into a madhouse. It would take years for mankind to get used to their new biology but right there and then John didn't waste a thought on the rest of creation. He considered this moment the height of perfection. Sherlock upon him. Around him. Here with him. This was what he had been waiting for all his life without even knowing for the better part of it. He felt Sherlock lean back into the strong hold of the tentacles. It gave his thrusts the possibility to go even deeper. The Consulting Detective wiggled his hips here and there until he found the position he'd been looking for.

"John."

_I know._

The doctor picked up pace. His movements turning harder and more abrupt in strength and depth. He made the tentacles tighten even more on Sherlock's body and one wind around the Detective's cock where it formed a tight tunnel. The doctor, too, began to pant now.

He watched the muscles in Sherlock's thighs tense and relax in an increasing frequency as the Consulting Detective rode every push and pull of John's body. Sherlock's leaking arousal slid through the blue limb, aided by copious amounts of pre-come.

"I am almost…"

_Good. Yes, good. _

John pulled Sherlock's arms down and made the detective fall forward, landing on his chest softly with the assistance of the tentacles. Unhurried, the limbs unwound themselves from between them, gliding over their skin and adding a whole new sensation. John made them spread out to Sherlock's sides before they began to curl all around their bodies. John felt them against his back, two on each side pressing themselves between him and the mattress. Two were still bonding them on thighs and calves but the singular one John let squirm against Sherlock's pelvis where it also brushed his shaft at every thrust.

There wasn't an inch left between them. And Sherlock couldn't help thinking that it was just the way it should always be. Nothing separating them. At least not physically. He felt John harden even more inside of him, the pace now smooth and languid again.

_Sherlock, I'm…_

"Yes, John. Yes!" Sherlock babbled, pressing down against the hard length filling him.

_No, I mean I'm gonna…_

"Yes. Yes." He moaned eagerly.

John's rhythm faltered, his thrusts turning erratic but growing in force. Sherlock felt heat pool low in his body as John grabbed his hands hard and tensed beneath him.

"Aaaahhh, fff…." John cock pulsed while his body bowed with the power of his orgasm. For a second Sherlock cursed inwardly. He was unable to grab his own cock to finish himself off, being pressed as tight as he was against his flat mate-turned-lover. His body moved of his own accord, trying to find the desperately needed satisfaction.

John pulled his hips down, letting his softening erection slip from Sherlock's body. A whimper of disappointment was elicited from the man above him. While his body pliant and exhausted, he still managed to use his will to move the tentacle from Sherlock's pelvis higher up, where it slipped between the Detective's cheeks at once.

"Oh." Sherlock groaned and immediately began to rub against him as the tentacle thrust into him.

"More." He demanded. John complied with care, not wanting to hurt him.

"Faster!" The tentacle picked up pace, literally pounding into him.

"Oh…" Sherlock sighed. "Oh, I…" John nibbled his neck softly but when Sherlock tensed above him he bit hard and possessively, unable to suppress the urge to do so.

"John." A sigh of contentment and the Consulting Detective slackened in the awkward embrace of his own tentacles.

_Perfect._


	5. Chapter 5

Howard Phillips

Sherlock was out of it for half an hour but, while John was tempted to take a nap, it was just too early for the doctor to rest again so he entertained himself by letting his fingers wander over Sherlock's back and arse. He made the tentacle retract fully to have more room for his explorations. Now, the mark he had left on Sherlock's shoulder was standing out harshly against the detective's pale skin. It made him feel ridiculously proud of himself for claiming the genius that was loudly snoring upon him. He pressed his nose into dark curls and reveled in their softness and smell. With great care, he closed his arms around Sherlock and rolled them over so he was on top of the sleeping man. Sitting back, he regarded the sweaty and sticky body before he decided to get a wet towel to clean them both up.

Sherlock stretched languorously when John returned to the bed. Gently, the doctor crawled over him and rubbed the towel over Sherlock's chest and down between his legs. Already having himself cleaned in the bathroom he discarded the wet cloth and leant down to brush a feather light kiss right below the detective's bellybutton. Sherlock opened his eyes lazily, watching with interest how John positioned himself on his thighs. He had often imagined such a domestic situation. While he was actually interested in sex in general, especially if it included one short, blonde army doctor, it had never been of uttermost importance to him. Moments like this, quiet intimate ones, held a strong appeal to him because they had always been so very hard to achieve for him. Not with John though, never with John.

Sensing his line of thoughts, the doctor gave him a small smile.

_OK?_

Sherlock considered the question. Both of them had issues with intimacy. Big, obvious issues. And even though they were close from the very beginning this was something else entirely.

"OK." He nodded thoughtfully. He knew that he wouldn't have to be careful and polite with John. If it would get too much he could just say so but right now… Well, right now he was more than fine.

With an indulgent grin, Sherlock crossed his arms beneath his head and gave John a challenging look.

"Could be better."

_Oh!_ John raised his brows prompting him to go on.

Without further explanation, Sherlock grabbed his right arm and pulled him hard down against him and rolled them around. Straddling John's lap, he took hold of the doctor's hands and pressed them down onto the mattress at either side of his head.

"If you want to control my tentacles while we are being intimate that's fine but never, ever do that under any other circumstances." Sherlock said, his voice deep and provoking.

"I think I should make use of your permission fully then, if it is so limited."

John emphasized his answer by pushing his hips up against Sherlock and rolling them in a slow circle to let them both feel the delicious drag of skin on skin.

"I wouldn't be opposed." Sherlock stated with a rough voice as his eyes fell close. John felt him push back, the detective's hip bones brushing his belly every now and then as he felt his cock harden at the smooth rhythm they were building.

Sherlock's arousal began to press insistently into the space between his thighs and pelvis and John could already hear him panting loudly above him. He was sure this would never lose it's novelty. Just when he felt the need to press up harder and a bit faster Sherlock froze above him. Surprised eyes looked down into his.

"The world is shaking!" John could feel a deep embarrassed blush spreading over his whole face at the sheer corniness of the statement.

"What?" He asked in disbelieve.

"I mean it!" Sherlock's tentacle's slowly pushed out of his back and stretched to the sides, filling John's vision once again. Sherlock nodded at them, signaling John to take a closer look at them.

Now he noticed the tiny ripples going through them and the minute shaking of their tips. It only lasted half a minute and then it was gone. John didn't know what to make of it and he didn't have to as Sherlock resumed their pleasant activity.

Four tentacles wound themselves around their hips, pressing them harder against each other while still allowing their hips to move.

"John." Sherlock sighed into his ears, upping the pace.

John let his hands slip from Sherlock's hold to close his arms around his back.

"Yes." John agreed to the situation as a whole. The detective raised his arms to firmly push them against the wall, giving John more leverage.

_God…._

John already felt the first signs of orgasm build in his belly and his mind go blank. Sherlock's labored breathing indicated the detective to be in a similar state and made him decide that it was ok to let go. He crossed his legs behind the detective's thighs and rutted hard against him, chasing completion while mumbling incoherently.

"Fuck, yes, I…Christ, that's.." The rest was drowned out by Sherlock's thought's pressing into his head and filling his consciousness.

_Don't stop. Don't…"_Ahhhh."

At Sherlock's low timbre groaned into his hair, John's body tensed forcefully. Grabbing the detective's back hard and pressing his forehead against the detectives shoulder, he came wetly between them.

John's head fell back against the bed when Sherlock rolled off of him. For a few seconds they just lay there while their breaths got back to normal.

The detective began to squirm uncomfortably before he dipped a finger into the mess on his cock and made an annoyed face. Without further explanation he got up from the bed and vanished in the bathroom. Immediately, John heard the water run in the shower.

Narrowing his eyes, he replayed the last minutes.

_SHERLOCK?_

There was no immediate reaction. Rethinking his discovery he sat up resting his feet on the wooden floor.

Just as he made to stand up to follow Sherlock into the shower, the world shifted beneath him in a most awkward way and he sat back hard. This time the shaking was closer to an actual earthquake and john tried to remember how much time had passed since the earlier one. He heard their mugs and plates clink in the cabinets before a distinctive _Thud!_ made him worry and rush into the bathroom.

The room was filled with steam but John still managed to avoid the bottles and tubes that had fallen from their medicine cabinet and now cluttered up the floor. He almost stepped on a razor when he saw Sherlock sitting in the bath tub looking embarrassed and frustrated at the same time. Swallowing the laughter that was threatening to overcome him he held out a hand for the detective to take.

"Did you hurt yourself?" He asked seriously.

"Only my pride." Sherlock stated, letting himself be dragged up and not even attempting to help.

"Ok. Good. That was the second one. They are not a good sign, I take it?"

_Definitely not._ "I am not sure."

_Sherlock?_

"What?" _Fuck!_ The detective stepped on a toothbrush as he took his towel from the hook at the door.

"I think we are still evolving." John stated, pointing a finger at his head before touching Sherlock's temple with it. The detective froze in front of him. Towel hanging forgotten from his hand he asked himself if John really meant what he thought he did.

"Yes." The doctor sighed, taking the towel from his hand and beginning to dry Sherlock's hair with it. He had to strain his arms but somehow it gave him a sense of control. The detective's face was impassive for the time it took John to dry his body completely but as soon as John was done Sherlock pushed him to the side and stepped from the room.

"We definitely have to do some experiments on that." He muttered to himself. Rolling his eyes, John decided to take a shower as well. He was sure that Sherlock had already forgotten about him. He knew he should have been offended but he was so used to Sherlock's behavior that he found he didn't mind one bit.

When John crossed the living room to get some clothes from his room, Sherlock lay motionless and stark naked on the couch. The doctor couldn't stop himself from taking a blanket and placing it over him. Less out of worry for his health then for Mrs. Hudson's.

Having dressed in a pair of boxers and a white shirt he walked down the stairs when he heard the doorbell ring. He ignored it, knowing all too well that their landlady was more than happy to answer the door but as soon as John heard Lestrade's voice being carried up the stairs his attention was picked. In a hurry he collected his trousers from the floor of Sherlock's room and put them on.

_Sherlock! Come here and put some clothes on!_

He heard the detective sigh in fake boredom as he made his way through the kitchen. Thanks to Mrs. Hudson's talkative nature Lestrade was only now climbing the stairs. John opened the door to let him in, a strong wave of guilt rushing through him at the sight of the DI. It wasn't that he was looking different to any other time they had met but with John's knowledge about what he'd done to him, he just couldn't help it.

"Come on in, Greg. Can I get you something? Tea? Biscuits?" The DI looked at him suspiciously until he understood.

"Ah. Sherlock has told you, hasn't he?" He asked untroubled.

"Yes, yes he did. And I am really sorry. I hope you know that I never meant…"

"It's OK. Don't worry. I know you'd never do anything like that on purpose." The DI said, reassuringly placing his hand on John's shoulder. "I am already used to them and, in fact, I think they changed my life in a very positive way." Lestrade grinned inwardly.

"So, how is my brother then?" Sherlock asked bluntly, interrupting them harshly as he stepped into the parlour.

"Fine. Very good, indeed, Sherlock. Do you want to know in detail? You know I could tell you, we have been quite busy…"

"Oh, stop it. OK you win! But never ever talk to me again about…This." Sherlock's face was scrunched up in a childish display of disgust but John could say that he was just playing his role. The DI grinned satisfied, taking a seat on the couch as John motioned for him to do so.

The doctor couldn't contain his own amusement as he sat down on his chair with a wide smile.

"So, how can we help you?" Sherlock asked, coming to stand beside John's chair and placing a hand in his neck. Lestrade's eyes flicked from one to the other several times before he relaxed into the couch and nodded to himself.

_Well, that's settled then. _John thought, pleased at Sherlock's possessive gesture and the DI's reaction.

"Nothing important. Just this…" He said, rummaging through his coat pockets until he found a crinkled letter and held it up. "It's apparently Howard Phillips' last letter to his wife. I wanted to hand it to her but the nurses said she still isn't stable enough to be confronted with his delusions. I thought you'd be interested." In a flash, Sherlock held the letter in his hands and began to tear it open.

As he read it, he began to chew on his bottom lip. John and Greg exchanged a worried glance before they made to stand on either side of the detective and began to read as well.

_Dear Sonja,_

_first of all, let me tell you that I am very sorry for leaving you out of nowhere. I didn't plan my sudden departure but when I found out that I had to do it the next day there was no time to explain everything to you. With "it" I mean the ritual I performed mere hours ago. I have finally found R'lyeh and, even though I can hardly explain what I saw, I will try to make you understand. You know how long I have been obsessed with the location of this ancient city. Years ago I already narrowed it's location down to Japan but that it was here in Shikoku came as a sudden realization over me as I studied my manuscripts for the umpteenth time. I knew where to go before I arrived, having seen the water reservoir online. And there they were. The stone steps with the gaping hole in their middle. God, I can't even begin to explain my excitement as I saw them for the first time. I had prepared to explore the darkness beneath them and immediately climbed down using the rope I had taken with me for that very purpose. You can't imagine the thickness of the centuries old air that enveloped me as I was dangling on the rope like a shark's bait. My torch didn't do much to scare the darkness away but it helped me to orientate myself. After a few minutes, I reached the muddy ground. Still I wasn't able to see a thing. I had to walk into a random direction for what felt like an eternity until I saw a wall in front of me. Cautiously, I followed turns and takes. Looking back, I am sure that I must have walked in a big circle for there never was a hole much less a door in the wall. But the daylight from the opening between the stairs had just ceded to exist at some point. The air seemed to get cold and wet in my lunges the longer I stumbled around until, at some point, I saw a wooden opening on the ground in front of me. You can probably understand that I questioned my senses at this point. I knocked and scratched on the wood making sure that my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. But it really was a trap door I had just found. Carefully, I pushed my fingernails into the small chutes at it's sides and pressed them hard into the rotten material. There was no handle or even a small opening to take a hold of. I felt scales of wood piercing my fingertips but I couldn't let go. The thought of my hands being occupied longer than necessary in this burdensome darkness frightening me more than anything else. I bit down hard on the torch between my teeth and closed my watering eyes as I summoned all my strength and opened the trap door enough to be able to push a foot into the opening. _

_Holding the torch in shaking hands, I opened it fully and was surprised to see a narrow stairway leading even deeper below the earth. There is no word for the averseness I felt when I took the first steps downwards. The stairs were irregular and frankly dangerous. I knew if I slipped my endeavor would be over before it had begun. But, if by miracle or destiny, I didn't fall. Every now and then I noticed drawings on the walls to might but I couldn't make out what they were meant to depict for most of them was already destroyed. I still wonder how old the drawings were but I don't think anyone will ever see them or even have a chance to analyze them. Not after what I've done._

_I don't want to bore you with my never ending descriptions of the hours and hours I was descending the stairs towards my goal. Eventually I reached flat ground. It took me absolutely of guard. At this point I was walking as if in trance, not thinking or seeing anything at all anymore. Falling to my knees, I reverently touched the dry earth before I took out the small statue I had brought with me and held it up. Hysteria came over me as I began to sing the old chants I had memorized years ago in preparation for this day. I don't expect you to understand why I did it but know that I had every reason to call them back. If you have studied my notes and manuscripts you can probably see that they are so much bigger and better than us. And the thing about nature is that only the strong and powerful deserve domination on earth. It was my duty to restore balance in the world once again. I don't know how long I was singing until I heard a deep growl answering my chants._

_The floor shook beneath me and a cold wind suddenly howled in the hall. It must have been bigger than I thought, judging by the echo that was surrounding me. I heard grinding, dragging noises that came closer and closer. In fear, I pointed the torch at the direction of the noises and, at first, I thought there was nothing to see but the movement of dirt in the wind but then I saw. Don't think ill of me just because I won't describe what my eyes had to take in for my mind was not able to process the monstrosity that was nearing me. I only remember blue-ish grey skin and the way things seemed to move between it. I pointed the torch here and there but every place was filled with moving flesh drawing in on me. _

_When the first bit of it touched me, I felt the air leaving my lungs in a rush and distantly heard the glass in the torch burst. Something wound itself around me, scratched and bit my arms and legs and started to drag me around._

_I must have lost consciousness at this point because I don't remember the sunlight touching my face as I was being pushed to the surface once again. But that is where I woke up a few minutes ago._

_You would be very worried if you saw me just now, love. I look devastated. There are more scratch marks and bite wounds on me than one man could count but I am going to spare you the ugly details. You only have to know that there is a light blue liquid oozing from my wounds and, after I saw or were unable to see, what mankind has to expect soon, I decided to be gracious on humanity. I will throw myself into this water. I already feel myself dissolve from the inside out so don't be angry at me for not coming back. There was never a possibility for my return to begin with. But what I am about to do will prepare you all for the inevitable._

_Don't hate me, Sonja. I am doing the right thing. I am sure of it. And if my dissolving body is having the effect on the world I expect it to you might soon understand. The time has come. The ground will open up to release what was long forgotten and __that is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange æons, even death may die._

_I love you Sonja and I know we will meet again in a different life._

_Love,_

_Howard_

Silence filled 221b for minutes after each of the three was done reading. Lestrade swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. John had walked back to his chair and sat down heavily in it. He hid his face in his hands, thinking about the implications of Howard Phillips' last words.

Sherlock was pacing up and down, rereading the letter over and over again before he stopped dead in his tracks.

"It's beginning again." He said to no one in particular. Lestrade nodded and took a seat on the floor. John furrowed his brows at him when he felt the first tremor in his feet.

_Oh._

Grimacing sadly he signaled for Sherlock to come closer. The Detective walked cautiously and knelt down in front of him. The earthquake's intensity grew and grew. Outside people began to scream, car sirens clung loudly being triggered by the commotion. And in the midst of it there was a noisy fracturing which seemed to get closer and closer. John watched a crack appear in the ceiling above him before he looked down at Sherlock who knelt in front of him and held his hands with an expression of defeat. Outside, the rupture passed them by with a deafening crash before the earth stood still again.

With great care, the three men got up and walked to the window overlooking the street. Surely enough, Bakerstreet was split in half, a huge crack running through it's middle. Lestrade didn't remark on the sight of his car hanging halfway down into a slope. He was sure that he had bigger problems at the moment. While they all stared outside, the silence was broken by the sound of Sherlock's phone. Without looking at it, he picked up and raised it to his ear.

John recognized Mycroft's voice but couldn't understand the words. After a minute Sherlock only said "Alright." and hung up.

Expectantly, John and Greg stared at him.

"My brother will be here in five minutes. The Helicopter has four places left. Go and get Mrs. Hudson." He ordered looking at John with an indefinable expression on his face. John nodded at him and moved to the door but came to stand just before the threshold.

_I love you, Sherlock._

"I love you, too." The detective said without turning around before he heard John making his way downstairs.

Lestrade looked at him but didn't ask if he had missed something. There was enough lying ahead of them that he would have to accept as a part of his reality, now.


End file.
